


The Stark Contrast of Strange Love

by a-blog-against-team-cap (anke_nels)



Series: even kings fall [1]
Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Banter, Drunkenness, Fighting is Flirting, First Kiss, Fluff, Iron Man 1 rewrite, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Self-Hatred, The Ten Rings - Freeform, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Torture, Violently, except totally not, hacking at canon with an ax, no powers au, royal au, the title has zero relevance I just like the pun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:58:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15645033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anke_nels/pseuds/a-blog-against-team-cap
Summary: Odraria and Nazpena have been at war for almost a hundred years, a disagreement so long lasting that none remember what even began such a thing. On the hundredth anniversary of the first battle, King Strange, King Stark, and their court advisors meet to discuss terms of a peace treaty. However, things do not go as planned, and while the countries’ fiery disagreement garners more fuel, a spark is found between the kings.





	The Stark Contrast of Strange Love

**Author's Note:**

> My big bang fic, a.k.a. this weirdass Royal AU based off of Paro and Erja. Who, as such, made cameos. Of course.

King Stark harrumphed. He didn’t see the necessity of attending the meeting himself, especially since it would be Obie who eventually made the relevant decisions. Despite Odraria being his country, Obie seemed to have complete control, disregarding even the other senior advisors such as Jarvis. Alas, Rhodey refused to see things that way, and was backed by his entire council. So, there he sat, upon his horse, gloomily plodding towards the headache that treaty negotiations always were. 

Although they were still several miles from the meeting place along the border, and all the more from the nearest battle, the boom of cannons reverberated through his jaw. Tony sighed. If all went well, those cannons would no longer be necessary, and Obadiah would stop pestering him to upgrade their arsenal of weaponry. War exhausted a kingdom, and a hundred year war would have it on it’s knees. 

Rhodey’s voice came from behind, “Hey, Tony, pick up the pace. We don’t want to be the last ones there.” His horse moved forward, falling into step alongside Tony’s own, You. 

“Fine, platypus. I still hate this, for your information. It’s a waste of time,” Tony urged You to move infinitesimally faster than their current stroll. All around them, the guards adjusted their speeds to match, forming a loose circle around the noblemen. Jarvis and Obadiah also rode within the protective sphere, studiously ignoring each other. While Jarvis had long been a proponent of peace, Obadiah had argued and fought, saying that they couldn’t cave in, that they had to be strong. 

The distance between them and their meeting continued to shrink, and a the small building came into view. It was nothing grandiose, much smaller than their meeting hall back in Odraria. However, as they neared, the finer craftsmanship became apparent. This simple structure had withstood battles raging around it many a time; the situation worsened by its position straddling the country’s borders. For all of the troubles it had endured, the building remained unharmed. They drew up towards the building, and Tony noted Rhodey’s sigh of appreciation that were no signs of the other’s arrival as of yet. 

Tony hopped off of You, and strode into the building with reckless abandon, while guards and advisors alike were still dismounting much more carefully than he. Behind him, Rhodey handed the reins of his horse to a soldier hurriedly, rushing after his friend. Tony let the door swing closed behind him, knowing that Rhodey would catch it before it could slam shut. He spun around, taking in the simplistic furnishing, a massive table that filled almost the entire room. 

“See, Honeybear? You’re overly worried. It’s fine, no one’s stabbed me yet.” Tony grinned at Rhodey, allowing the mask of decorum to drop momentarily. Almost immediately after that moment of happiness, however, Obadiah walked into the room, and his smile dropped instantly, his posture stiffening.

Obie grabbed his shoulder and steered him towards the table, pushing him into a chair, where Tony gathered himself regally, pulling his posture tall, giving off an air of utter control, yet complete disregard. His travel gear was less than beautiful, but the confidence that he projected could more than make up for his sweaty brow.

The remainder of their party trooped into the room. Jarvis walked over to the table, and Rhodey joined him after a moment. Obadiah still stalked around the room, peering through the windows, waiting for the other party to arrive. Guards lined up neatly around the walls, swords sheathed, standing at the ready. The hands on Tony’s pocket watch drew ever closer towards the appointed hour, and Obadiah’s annoyance grew all the more palpable. The second hand ticked determinedly towards the hour, and was almost there when a spark flew through the air.

The spark was followed by another and another, until a cascade of small orange dots formed in mid-air, sending them spiralling into a circle, wobbling around as it opened wider and wider, and the Nazpenan king and advisors stepped through. Tony’s eyes widened, and he fought to keep his mouth from dropping open in surprise. Obadiah whirled away from the windows, glaring daggers at the arrivals. One of the advisors, a bald woman seemed to be in control of the circle, and lead the party. As they moved into the room, however, the king walked forward with a red cloak swirling behind him and sat stiffly in the chair next to Tony.

In order to create an even starker contrast, Tony forced relaxation into his posture, smirking at King Strange. His sweaty travelling clothes were in direct opposition to Strange’s blue dress tunic. Even their shoes were different, with Tony in heavy riding boots, and Stephen in much more refined slippers. 

In response to Tony’s behavior, Strange raised one skeptical eyebrow as his council members took their seats at the table. Nazpenans alternated with Odrarians, with the kings presiding at the head of the table. To Tony’s right sat Strange, to his left was the bald woman.

“Introductions?” Tony drawled, “I can’t just call you ‘the bald woman,’ you know.” The woman moved with controlled movements, and no energy wasted. Her patience was obvious, as if she had handled a million Tony’s in her time, and would handle a million more.

“My name is Tilda. I am known as the Ancient One.” Tony furrowed his brows at that. She certainly didn’t seem ancient, and he said as much.

“One ought not comment on a lady’s age.” She showed no signs of annoyance, merely continuing in that calm voice. Tony noticed in that moment that she was not in any form of a woman’s typical dress, instead in a yellow tunic much like the king’s own. Obadiah glared at him, though, obviously annoyed by the direction in which Tony had taken the conversation.

Like a petulant toddler, Tony responded, “It was like a compliment. I’m saying she doesn’t look ancient!” Rhodey sighed, watching Tony aggravate the situation all the further.

Obadiah ground his teeth, forcing out the word “Stop.” From the other side of the Ancient One, Rhodey called out to Tony.

“Hey, Tones? Word of advice: If you’re trying to get out of a hole, put down the shovel and stop digging.” Tony opened his mouth to protest, then paused, thinking the better of it. He mimed locking his mouth shut, to which Rhodey rolled his eyes. 

“If we could stop with the foolishness, and get the meeting started, that would be lovely,” King Strange said, reclining in his seat. While Rhodey lead the Odrarian side of the attempted peace treaty, pulling out the parchment list of ideas, Tony tuned out the meeting, instead wriggling around in his seat to face Strange.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. Tony shrugged.

“Not paying attention, what does it look like I’m doing?” came the snarky reply. 

Strange already looked utterly fed up with Tony, but continued the conversation anyway. “You do realize that this conference has real weight? Consequences like soldiers continuing to die, and this war dragging out even more than the hundred years that it already has?” 

“I do, but it’s not like I’ll make the decision anyway. I’m what you might call a ‘figurehead.’” Tony punctuated that remark with dramatic air quotes.

“Oh, really? I, on the other hand, am a real king. I actually control, and help, my country and citizens.” Stephen seemed to have moved from pure annoyance to taking slight amusement in the banter.

“What does that even mean?” Strange said, with an expression somewhere between disgust and hilarity.

Tony flicked his tongue out, “What, you’d rather I help you?” He was faintly aware that the meeting had continued in the background without their input, but didn’t really care. He was having fun, and Strange was a cutie, so it might even end well for him.

Strange spluttered, trying to put together an adequate response, “Uh. No?” Tony watched as his face grew pinker by the moment.

Tony suppressed a laugh. This was the most fun he’d had in ages, “Tell me, your majesty, what name might have the honour of gracing your being?” He looked up at the king through thick eyelashes, employing every idiotic flirtatious move of which you could think.

“I suppose you could call me your enemy, at least until we finish this treaty. Stop talking, this meeting is important.” Strange’s blush now extended up to his hairline, and he turned himself to face forwards, set on ignoring Tony for the rest of the meeting. Before he could get any bearings in the situation, however, Tony slid his leg over, nudging his foot gently. Stephen yanked his leg away, to which Tony replied by only drawing closer, until they were both pressed against the right sides of their seats, Strange attempting to escape, and Tony chasing after.

Tony supposed he ought to be impressed by Strange, as he hadn’t truly gotten angry yet. Most people would consider it an impressive feat. Tony, on the other hand, thought it was a great deal of fun to converse with those who possessed a great deal of snark. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice Strange ease himself back into the center of his chair, not until his leg came to rest gently against Tony’s. 

“You may call me Stephen,” At that, a small smile began to form.

“Alright, Stephanie, I’m Tony,” Tony replied, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face.

“My name is not Stephanie. That is not at all what I said,” Stephen heaved a deep sigh, but his amusement was inconcealable.

“Sure, Stephanie,” Tony was beside himself in mirth, but was making desperate attempts to conceal that from the rest of the table.

“We’re playing that way, then? I can retaliate in kind, you know, Anthony.” The answering snark delighted Tony, as finally the game was played by two. In the background, however, the meeting dynamics seemed to be escalating, and the voices were growing all the louder. 

“Stephanie, I think we’ll be the bestest of friends.” Tony declared, squirming in his seat so that he was as turned towards Stephen as was possible. He placed his elbows on the arms rest, and his head in his hands, smiling at Stephen in the most innocuous smile he could summon. 

“Oh, really?” Stephen’s expression was skeptical, and his voice contained hints of manufactured doubt.

“We could be more if you like,” Tony made a kissy face, and loudly proclaimed, “Mwah!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rhodey making a disapproving face at him, jerking his hand across his throat, a non-verbal signal to Shut the fuck up, Tony. Tony turned his head to address him fully, and replied like the mature adult he was. 

He stuck out his tongue. Rhodey, who was clearly somewhat fed up with the world, and Tony specifically, rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the meeting. Which, Tony noticed, was becoming quite heated and angry. He hadn’t listened enough of the time to have the foggiest idea why, but Obadiah was standing and gesticulating rather aggressively. Tilda remained calm and in her seat, but was clearly arguing back as Obie got more and more frustrated. His attention, however, was quickly lost by the argument and turned back towards the king sat beside him.

“I’m bored,” he whined, aiming to give off the impression of being a cranky child. He dropped his head onto Stephen’s shoulder in the pretense of sleep, and it remained there a fraction of a second too long before he was pushed back upright. A moment later, his attention was brought front and center by the situation unfolding before them. Both kings’ heads swivelled forward, looking at what was shaping up to be a disastrous situation. While Wong, Tilda, and Jarvis remained somewhat calm, or at least stayed in their chairs, Mordo and Obadiah were standing, shouting. Rhodey’s brows were pressed with worry, and although he was out of his chair, he was not a participant in the escalating dramatics. Instead, he hurried towards Tony, standing beside his chair.

When it looked like the fight was set to come to blows, Tilda and Jarvis began to intervene, attempting to pull their various people back from the brink. With Jarvis’ interference, Obadiah grew only more incensed, reaching out and angrily punching Mordo in the jaw. Tony winced in sympathy for the man, as he rubbed his hand along his chin, his anger all the more apparent.

“You arrogant, war-mongering asshole,” Mordo growled, rocking back and forth in readiness.

“You’re exactly the thing you accuse me of,” Obadiah replied, his voice quiet and threatening. Mordo launched himself forward, sending his fist slamming into Obadiah’s chest. Even as large as Obie was, Mordo knocked him backwards a few feet, sending him reeling. The murderous look in Obie’s eyes, though, clued Tony in that it might be time to leave. As if reading his mind, Rhodey leaned down to whisper in his ear.

“Time to go, Tones,” His hand gripped Tony’s shoulder, and guided him out of his seat and began propelling him towards the door. In his peripheral vision, Tony caught a glimpse of Wong quietly speaking with Stephen, but before he could contemplate anything that was happening, he and Rhodey exited the building.

Tony was pushed towards his horse, and as he grabbed onto the bridle, Rhodey went to mount his own. A segment of the guards peeled off of the others, and came after them, similarly swinging atop their mounts.

“So why was my exit so necessary, sourpatch?” Tony sat complacently on his horse, following as Rhodey began to plod away, questioning even as Rhodey seemed set to evade him.

“Tones, be honest with yourself. You would’ve gotten involved, made some comment or another, and that fistfight would’ve been taken to a whole other level. Things were sticky enough diplomatically as they were, your involvement had the potential to make everything all the worse. Jarvis and Tilda will sort it out, hopefully peacefully.” Even as Tony acknowledged the sound reasoning behind Rhodey’s words, his exterior played it up for the drama.

“What an insult, honeybear! I don’t think I’ll ever trust you the same again. I would’ve handled that with all of the diplomatic grace humanly possible,” He splayed his hand across his collarbone dramatically, acting as if he’d been shot. Rhodey stared at him, his face deadpan.

“You’re a terrible actor, Tony.” 

“Ex-cuse me, I happen to think I’m a wonderful actor,” Tony crossed his arms and pouted, before realizing that he could ask for a second opinion, “Happy!” he cried, waving at one of the guards, “I’m an amazing actor, right, Happy?”

“Whatever you say, boss.” The soldier in question replied indulgently with a bored expression on his face.

“See, Rhodey? Happy knows that I’m a great actor. Happy might be getting a promotion soon,” he turned towards Happy, covering his mouth with his hand, but leaving his volume unaltered, “I think you’d be a much better advisor than sourpatch over here,”

“Be real, Tony. Obadiah wouldn’t let you replace me,” Rhodey said, only half listening. Tony winced at the reminder of his lack of control, but shrugged it off.

“He doesn’t have to let me. Not if you quit!” Tony squealed, the pitch of his voice altering only slightly with repressed emotion.

“And why would I quit, exactly?” Rhodey continued the conversation on autopilot, instead squinting ahead towards the woods, and the deep shadows lying within.

“Hmm… I annoy you to insanity? And Obie has you placed in an asylum to recover? And instead of recovering, you die of food poisoning?” Tony snickered at the thought, his good humour returning easily. Rhodey sighed, but didn’t reply, and the conversation lapsed into silence as they continued towards home.

\-------------------

A few days later, Tony was sitting in what amounted to a war council. Obadiah was talking about the movement of Nazpenan troops, and what their countermoves were to be, but Tony tuned him out. It wasn’t like his opinion mattered anyway. He fiddled with his quill, inklessly etching designs upon the table. In the background, he heard Obie talking about building more of their new cannons, which fired a more streamlined projectile, one with multiple explosion stages.

He had designed it, of course. Obadiah had said that it was necessary, so Tony dreamt up the blueprints, built a prototype and sent it to the forges before returning to his pet project of fixing the printing press. He hadn’t put much time into it, but it had still changed war as they knew it, having a much larger blast radius than a traditional cannonball. He winced, imagining the disapproval that Stephen’s face would hold for those lost soldiers. And the blame for those deaths lay firmly upon his own shoulders. If he hadn’t built the missiles, future deaths would be a fraction of their current number.

And Stephen… He would hate Tony for this. One of the only people willing to not only put up with Tony, but to engage with him, and he would hate him. They had only just met, and were on opposing sides of the war, so it wasn’t like there was hope there anyway, but Tony’s reckless destruction of life would eliminate the small possibility of any of this working out in their favor.

Tony sighed. When had he become a besotted fool? Stephen was the dick-ish king of the country that he’d been at war with his entire life; there was never a chance of anything there. Stephen would likely never hold another civil conversation with him, and when they met again, it very well might be on the battlefield.

Why should it matter anyway? Stephen was just a man. And a rude one at that. Tony definitely didn’t care what he thought, nor did he want to talk to him again. Or do more than talking. Nope, definitely not. His focus was drawn back towards the meeting as Obadiah spoke directly at him.

“Tony? You need to get to work. We need better guns.” Obadiah’s voice was icy and low, and Tony wanted to shake it off, and preferably never hear it again.

“Do we really? We’ve already got superior weapons and bigger armies. Why do we need anything more?” Tony regretted his protest almost immediately, as Obadiah’s eyes narrowed, boring into his skull. 

“Do you want the war to go on for another hundred years or not?” Obadiah growled, and Tony cringed.

“No, but I don’t want to kill people unnecessarily,” Tony muttered this response, not wanting to provoke him all the further.

“What did you say?” Obadiah’s query was said in a stone cold voice, full of anger. Tony felt his heart still and his bones chill, recollecting himself within a shell of silence.

“Nothing. I’ll get the designs ready to be built in a few weeks,” Tony replied quietly, looking at the table, hands nervously fidgeting with his quill. It wasn’t like he could do anything else.

“That’s not good enough, Tony. Have them ready tomorrow.” Obadiah turned and strode out of the room, leaving Rhodey and Jarvis to sit in the room with Tony.

“Well, I guess I’d better go get working,” Tony offered a tight smile, attempting to offer a sliver his typical humor.

“Sir, if I may suggest, Rhodes and I can help you with the designs. That deadline is far too pressing for any one man,” Jarvis interjected as Tony was stepping towards the door.

“It’s okay, Jar. I’ll keep the blood on my hands. And anyway, it’s not like I haven’t worked under Obie’s impossible deadlines before.” Tony hurried into the hallway and eased the door shut behind him. As he headed down towards the lab, his mind whirled with a variety of thoughts. Possibilities for a missile-gun… Repercussions of the gun in terms of the war as a whole… What Stephen would think of the gun… Non-lethal methods of suppression, which Obie wouldn’t approve or want, but which Tony would far rather build… Defensive gear, to keep all soldiers safer, an attempt to preserve their lives, rather than enable them to take others… And yet the only thoughts he had that would matter to anyone else, in the long run, were those of a new weapon. A new piece of technology to kill more people, or to kill people faster. Another thing to make him hate himself all the more.

\---------------------

That night, Tony sat in his laboratory alone. The design itself hadn’t taken very long at all, and he had assembled the first one without much more effort. Now, though, he had to handle what would happen because he built it. The deaths, the changes in the battlefield, the injuries, the potential of conquering Nazpena and having to face Stephen… All things that he really couldn’t come to terms with. So there he sat, on the floor, leaning against the wall with a bottle in his hand.

The acrid taste of liquor still burned, even after the first bottle, and the second. But Tony choked it down anyway, whether in a toast to the lives that were to be lost, or in an attempt to forget all the devastation that he had wrought and was to bring. Silent tears fell on his cheeks, and he brought the bottle to his mouth once more. The liquid sloshed out, falling on his chest, but he made no move to rectify it, instead dropping his head back onto wall and sighing.

Eventually he fell into a liquor-induced slumber, uncomfortable and nauseous, but deserving of the pain. He lay there for a few hours before rousing with a crick in his neck and a multitude of stiff muscles. When he finally was fully conscious, he finally noticed the headache chipping away at his skull. Sighing, he moved slowly to his feet, picking up the designs and prototype before painfully walking towards the forge, joints and moral compass both protesting his actions.

When he arrived outside of the door, he eased it open and stepped inside. The smiths and their apprentices had been at work for a while now, and he dropped the blueprints and gun on the table silently before turning and leaving. He intentionally remained an unknown presence to the workers until he opened the door with a piercing squeal. His head ached all the more at the thought of what those guns would do.

\-----------------------

A month or so later, Tony’s new gun had wrought destruction on the armies of Nazpena. Many were dead, many were injured. And so, in a desperate attempt to preserve the lives of what citizens they had left, the Nazpenan court had organized another treaty meeting. In the same small building, at the same time of day. This date, however, was far less significant than the hundredth anniversary of the war’s beginning. In fact, unless a treaty were to be formed, it had no significance at all.

The other difference in the meeting was the barring of Obadiah from attending, as he was the primary instigator of whatever fight had occurred on the prior occasion. Tony personally thought that Obie not being there was a relief, and would make the meeting significantly more successful. 

Outside of the building, Tony tied up his horse and headed inside with Rhodey, rather subdued compared to their previous arrival. The deaths of Nazpenan soldiers weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he had desperately drank himself to sleep more often than not as the repercussions had begun. They took their seats in silence as their companions and soldiers filled in after. One of the soldiers, Paro, lounged against the wall rather than standing at attention, but seeing the boredom in her eyes, Tony didn’t blame her one jot. 

The Nazpenans’ dramatic entrance was expected this time, so no one moved a muscle when a circle of sparks formed at the front of the room. When they strode dramatically in, Tony simply sighed and looked at the table, fiddling with the quill in his hand. Stephen took the seat beside him.

“Good afternoon, Anthony,” Stephen’s voice was light, not at all the anger that Tony expected for the harbingers of destruction that he had made.

“Stephen.” Tony’s reply was a statement, resigned to his fate and full of self-loathing. Stephen seemed somewhat taken aback by this change in demeanor from when he saw him last.

“Tony?” Stephen reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, not squeezing, merely leaving his hand atop the small plateau. The warmth emitting from his palm calmed Tony slightly, his brain pausing the feedback of he hates me he hates me he hates me. He shuddered in disgust, horrified that he had become so domesticated that a simple touch from this man could relax him, slow his racing mind, and even marginally ease the weight of guilt that ate away at his very being.

Most of his attention was diverted- though a fraction remained on the hand, still at rest on his shoulder- by bickering between two of the guards. Paro herself, and a Nazpenan, whose name seemed to be Erja, judging by their comments.

“Erja, shut up, that is incredibly false.” Tony couldn’t quite figure out what the argument was about, but he took mild amusement in it. Even such a stimulating argument couldn’t fully remove his focus on Stephen’s hand. He hasn’t moved it yet. Is that weird? 

“Is it, Paro?” Erja’s tone was mocking, and Paro rolled her eyes.

“Yes, Erja. It is. You are wrong, your opinion is false.” Her rejoinder held no logical rebuttal, but Erja’s statement wasn’t exactly intellectual to begin with.

“That’s rude.” This statement was met with a heavy sigh, and Paro held up her middle finger, projecting an apathetic expression. Like an actual toddler, Erja poked her tongue out at Paro. The so-called argument degenerated further into childish nonsense from there, unsurprisingly.

Stephen’s hand finally slipped off Tony’s shoulder, instead moving to drum his fingers on the table. Tony internally cursed himself for how much he missed the basic touch, whilst simultaneously thanking the stars that Obie hadn’t been allowed to come this time. He would frown on any sort of positive interaction between the two, it was like he wanted the war to continue forever. 

The meeting continued along it’s boring track, and while no one blew up this time, nothing was actually resolved, leaving more questions than answers, it seemed. Everyone was packing up and preparing to leave, and Rhodey was chatty amicably with Tilda. Watching them, Tony wished he could have that with Stephen. But it wasn’t to be, couldn’t be, because Tony was no better than a murderer, he was unworthy of that camaraderie. Tony turned to and walked towards You. His shoulders and head drooped still, burdened by the godforsaken war, which seemed unending still. As he trudged away, he felt a slender hand grasp his wrist, the long fingers gently ensnaring him. He jerked partly away before seeing Stephen. He watched Stephen warily, however, muscles still tense.

“Anthony.” Stephen’s voice was quiet, as if speaking to a skittish animal, “Would you like to exchange letters?”

Tony almost flinched from the unexpected offer, and then winced at his lack of control, nodding silently. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled; he knew that Obadiah wouldn’t approve of this. 

“I have a trustworthy soldier, Erja, who knows one of yours… Paro, I think? Can she be the one to bear the letters to Odraria? And Paro could take them from there. Is that okay?” Stephen’s soft voice questioned gently, probing without expecting a particular answer.

“Yes,” Tony’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper as it left his closed off throat. Obadiah had never offered him the luxury of an opinion, and it was a glorious feeling to be considered important. At home, if Obie asked for Tony’s opinion, he wanted his own opinion spat back at him in a pretty package. And Stephen? He hadn’t any expectations for what Tony would think. And Tony loved that so much.

As the room began to empty, the guards filing out along with most of the courtiers, Tony stole a furtive glance around the room, then looked up at Stephen’s face. After a moment of hesitation, he gingerly wrapped his arms around Stephen in a soothing hug. Before it was returned, Tony had a moment of panic, terrified of having overstepped, ruined what he had. His shaking shoulders were held steady by the balanced presence above him. The relief that flooded through Tony at the reciprocation was unquantifiable, and he smiled. A few seconds later, Tony grew aware of the mounting awkwardness and withdrew suddenly, staring down at the ground abashedly. Stephen, however, placed a hand upon Tony’s shoulder, and he drew his eyes back off the ground.

“Talk to you soon?” he said with a small smile. Tony murmured his assent, and they turned in unison, walking towards the door. Out of habit, Tony fell into step respectfully behind him, deferring to the other man’s authority. Unexpectedly, Stephen paused, allowing him to catch up, a startling behavior to Tony. Obadiah would presume it his right to stride in front of the king. Stephen, though, viewed Tony as an equal, which was a stunning contrast, one which filled him with appreciation for this man.

As they rode home, Tony resided primarily within daydreams, happily thinking about the letter he would soon receive from Stephen.

\---------------------

Tony jerked awake in the night as a rough hand yanked a bag over his head. Thrashing about in fear, he flailed his limbs into his assailants, the walls, the furniture, anything he could. All of his actions were for naught as he was mercilessly thrown into a hewn wagon. His limbs were bound, the rope scratching at his skin. Though he screamed, there was no response from any of the guards, even as the wagon pulled out of the city, through the guarded passageway. He heard the gates squeal open, heard the murmur of the guards above, and yet they seemed utterly deaf to any noises emitting from beneath the wagon’s cover.

As the wheels rolled forwards, leaving Lalenta behind, Tony felt the last dregs of hope slide away from him. He bitterly wished for a drink- or seven- something to drag him back into oblivion, hopelessness echoing through his soul. But that would be selfish to do, and was selfish to wish for. He couldn’t avoid reality in the bottom of a bottle, he deserved the pain the real world wrought. Really, he firmly believed that he deserved everything he got. It wasn’t like his suffering could ever equate to all the death he had rained upon the fields of battle. 

At least if he died, Obie could never force him to create armaments of Death ever again.

With these thoughts, Tony stilled in the wagon, heading resolutely to his fate. He set his jaw, trying to appear stoic, and let out an angry sigh. If this were a ransom attempt, Obie wouldn’t pay up, and these people would surely kill him out of sheer frustration. Or maybe this was just a roundabout assassination; it’d be excessively dramatic, but still possible. Tony’s thoughts continued to drift through various bouts of introspection and self hatred, before they finally slowed as he fell into an uneasy yet exhausted slumber.

\---------------------

He later awoke to the sound of explosions. Bright daylight glared down through the wagon’s poor excuse of a canopy, and he squinted in an attempt to filter the light. The light-induced eye ache was quickly forgotten as the wagon shook from another cannon boom. Shrapnel tore alongside the wagon, slicing one of the fabric sides. Tony wriggled around in his bindings in an attempt to peak outside. He only caught a glance, which was enough to leave him dry heaving.

Bodies surrounded the wagon, or rather bits of them. They lay strewn across the sand, blood staining the granules a deep scarlet. There didn’t appear to be anyone left alive to even fire the weaponry, and yet another boom reverberated through his jaw. The bodies became fewer and farther in between, and the wagon seemed to have left the battle grounds, as it pulled to a stop. A tall man with a scarf covering part of his face pushed aside aside the wagon’s flap and pulled Tony out, onto the floor. Behind him stood three other men, dressed in similar garb. Tony’s surroundings of sand, the men’s appearance, and the war torn landscape meant one thing. He was in Ter Pelaca. That wasn’t exactly useful information; there were an excess of warring factions that could’ve taken him. And he hadn’t paid enough attention to know much else. His (apparently faulty) logic rest upon the principle that the Nazpenan war would cause any problems with other countries to be non-consequential.

The ropes around his ankles were undone, and he was yanked to his feet. They marched forward, the man prodding Tony in the back, sand burning his bare feet. 

“I don’t suppose that you remembered to grab my boots when you kidnapped me in the middle of the night?” Tony’s voice was scratchy and halting from the hours without water, but worked nonetheless. Mouthing off to captors was guaranteed to get yourself thrown in a ditch, he figured, and he wouldn’t exactly object to that. His life wasn’t worth much anymore.

The answer that came was only a grunted “Walk.” accompanied by a nice shove to the cervical spine.

“You know, I won’t be as valuable if my feet are literally scorched. Ransoms have the same sort of thing as used goods- the more damaged it is, the less you’ll get for it. So if you actually want someone to pay up… Better keep me in pris-fucking-tine condition.” Tony’s inane chatter had gotten under the grunts’ skin; their annoyance was obvious in their contorted facial expressions. He smirked.

“It’s not like Obadiah wants to pay for me even if I’m perfect. He’s lame like that. With any damages? You’ll be lucky if he even takes me off your hands.” Tony intentionally swayed side to side as he walked, performing his absolute best impression of an insolent toddler. He even dragged his feet along the ground for a few seconds, until the sand’s heat became unbearable.

They walked a bit further, and there was no end in sight. One of the men, walking slightly to the right of everyone else, took a step that landed slightly differently than all of the others. Tony looked over in confusion as the man’s expression turned to utter horror, and all of the men surrounding him backed away as quickly as they could. He took a few steps away, uneasy but intrigued by the spot that created such fear in their eyes.

All of a sudden, the world turned upside down in a flash of blinding light. A piercing pain echoed through Tony’s sternum, and he deliriously realized he was now laying down, his back warmed by the sand. A hot liquid oozed out onto his chest and stomach, and he touched it, giggling at the sensation it produced. His mind was foggy, and the world seemed to spin, and he vaguely registered another explosion nearby, this one raining pieces of a man all around them. A mixture of blood and sand splattered Tony, and then the world spiralled around him, then went dark.

\--------------------

He awoke in a cave. A man with tawny skin sat nearby, cleaning a needle of blood. Tony thrashed around in a panic as the events came rushing back to him. 

Kidnapping… Walking… Sand… Explosion… 

Now past the stage of shock, he froze, realizing he had been bleeding. He pulled at his chest in a panic, exposing neat stitches holding together numerous slices in his flesh.

“Good morning, King Stark” the man’s voice was mild, not at all a slight, but lacking in any real respect. He continued calmly in his task, then lay the needle neatly within a medical case. Tony’s hands still scrabbled for purchase against his new stitches, his lungs heaving for air desperately. The man grabbed Tony’s hands gently, placing them down by his sides. At that, Tony became aware of the pain radiating through his chest, outward from the sutures.

He went limp at that, already tired from his short panic. As his muscles slowly relaxed from the pure fear that had torn through him mere moments before, he heard the faint sound of boots tromping down the hallway. He didn’t really register them until the other man snapped to his feet, and hissed at him to do the same.

He clambered off the table slowly, limb by limb, achingly working his way to vertical, his chest screaming all the while. As he finally reached a standing position, the door swung open and a heavy set man stomped in, accompanied by a large posse of men. 

He spoke the common tongue with a thick accent, to the point that even Tony was struggling to make his words out, “We need you to build weapons,” Tony’s eyes bugged out at him. The second he was away from Obadiah, someone else wants him to do the exact thing? Really?

“No. Absolutely not. I’m not getting involved in Pelacan politics, not happening,” Tony shook slightly in remembrance of Obadiah’s demands, of the blank drunkenness, of the horrifying aftermath. He continued on, forcing an edge into his voice, “And I’m never building a goddamn bomb again.” Tony jutted out his chin in an attempt to portray an air of defiance, rather than the trembling-kneed child like which he felt. Defiance wasn’t tolerated by Obie; what made him think that rebel groups would do anything different?

“Yes, you will.” A nod from the leader sent the men swarming at Tony. They grabbed him, yanked him away from the room, pulling at his stitches as he was moved.

\---------------------

Water. 

Air. 

Water again. 

Tony had long lost track of how long this cycle had continued as he repeatedly choked on water. The liquid would pour into his lungs. He’d see spots- almost unconscious, almost dead. Then they’d finally bring him up again, choking and spluttering. Sometimes he threw up, retching up nothing but stomach bile; sometimes he coughed until his throat was raw, and yet he would be inevitably thrust back below the surface.

The cycle seemed unending, until he finally fell unconscious. 

When he finally awoke, the hands that had grasped his shoulders and yanked at his hair were gone. His head pounded, an army of anvils hopping about within the cage of his skull, and he was vaguely aware of movement. His damaged throat and lungs burned with hypoxia, the stitches restraining him from a full breath. Eventually, he became aware of the uncomfortable position in which he had been thrown, sprawled across the stone floor. His headache had developed all the further, with an added potential concussion, on top of the oxygen deprivation from earlier.

“Stark?” The surgeon from earlier was there, now sketching on a piece of rudimentary paper using charcoal. Tony jerked towards the wall; he hadn’t noticed the man’s presence. 

“Okay, what’s your name? You clearly know mine, and I don’t like this tilted playing field.” Tony slammed up his shield of humour, an instinctive coping mechanism, a way to hide his weaknesses. He noted that it didn’t work as well when his throat was shredded from being waterboarded. He also noted an unhealthy level of detachment from his own wellbeing, but immediately discarded that note. 

It didn’t matter. He didn’t matter.

“Yinsen. Ho Yinsen.” The man replied, a bland expression on his face, calmly continuing to work.

“Nice to meet you, Yinsen. Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” Tony’s face contorted into something somewhere between a grimace and a maniacal grin. He looked insane, he felt insane, and if he wasn’t insane yet, he would be soon.

“We’re in a cave, somewhere in Ter Pelaca,” Yinsen began.

Tony’s nerves were coiled tight with stress. “No shit, tell me something I don’t know.” His tone started out harsh, but that was undermined by the massive voice crack and tears of panic that welled up in his eyes.

“We’re being held-” Yinsen’s explanation began as confusing as anything.

“Wait, you’re a prisoner too? I figured you were just their surgeon or something.” Tony’s eyes widened; he wouldn’t think a prisoner would do nearly as good at their job as Yinsen had. But he’d interrupted, and Yinsen was sure to have more to say. While he didn’t love that trait of his, it wasn’t exactly new. He was rude, impatient, interrupting.

“No, I was taken captive a few years ago, and have been kept alive simply because I’m useful,” Yinsen replied, unperturbed by Tony’s interjection, “Now if you hadn’t interrupted, I would’ve told you that we’re being held by the Ten Rings.” 

“Who are?” Tony threw his hands up in the air in frustration. It felt like Yinsen was expecting him to know far more about local politics than any sane human would.

“A terrorist group working against the current Pelacan government. I assume you’re familiar with the Pelacan destabilization?” Yinsen sounded expectant, and Tony cringed, remembering his willful ignorance of any knowledge outside of the scientific fields.

“Not particularly,” He admitted begrudgingly, his cheeks coloured pink with embarrassment.

“A king, not knowing the political situation of his own neighbors?” Yinsen’s eyebrows arched, the look of a teacher’s reprimand to their pupil.

“I wasn’t the most attentive child during my studies. Besides, it doesn’t matter anyway, I’m just here to look pretty; Obie runs everything.” Tony carefully arranged his features into a smirk. He couldn’t let his frustration peak through the masks.

Yinsen sighed, his eyes piercing, leaving Tony feeling like his soul was on display for all to see. “To summarize, Ter Pelaca has been taken over by half a dozen different empires and military factions within the last fifty years or so. The citizens have been roughshod over at every turn. This produced some extremists, which have bonded together to create groups like the Ten Rings. The issue is that there are dozens of different factions like them, and they are all fighting to instate their own ruler of choice. It’s left the country in shreds for decades.”

“So it’s a bunch of children playing King of the Hill, but with weaponry and civilian lives?” All of this just made Tony remember how much he hated politics. Sometimes, it seemed like the governments were arranged by uneducated children playing with their dolls.

“That would be an accurate summary.” Yinsen, thankfully, didn’t seem to like political drama any more than Tony did.

“Fantastic. These guys seem relatively awful, so I’m not building them shit.” With that, Tony defaulted back to snark, a façade of bravado that, in normal circumstances, he could maintain in his sleep.

“A logical conclusion, if you can withstand torture for the rest of your life.” Yinsen wasn’t the sort of person to enjoy witty banter, clearly. That’s unfortunate, given Tony would be spending the rest of his life with this man.

“Well it’s not like that’ll be too long. I’m annoying, they’ll put me down eventually,” Tony knew it was completely true, but he forced a joking tone into his voice, and plastered on a wry smile.

“Put you down? Like an animal?” Yinsen’s face arranged itself into a dubious expression, not at the idea of death, instead doubting Tony’s likeness to animals. He’d learn eventually; he would find out about the blood that lay on Tony’s hands, coating them, crusting beneath his nails. 

“We’re all animals, just bloodthirsty creatures scrabbling for a scrap of power, destroying each other while we’re at it,” Most people would probably call this pessimistic, Tony fully acknowledged that. But he preferred to call it realism, because this was reality, and it all sucked.

“Stark. Do you want this to be your legacy? A figurehead who’s only acts have been those of destruction? Or will you get off your ass and do something, get out of here and make the world better?” 

Tony almost heard Stephen in those words. 

It seemed like something he would’ve said. Stephen. His heart ached, knowing that the forthcoming letter would remain unread, sitting about in his chambers after deliverance. Stephen would probably be left confused, because no reply would come.

“Personally, I’m not sure how much I can even do. You said it, Yinsen. I’m only still alive because Obadiah doesn’t have royal blood.” Tony had known that for years, but that didn’t mean it didn’t sting. A man who was a father figure to him when he was young, who had raised him more than his real parents was keeping him around just for power. And so had begun the disillusionment of one Anthony Edward Stark.

“Are your last acts really going to be those of a coward?” Yinsen was provoking now, trying to get Tony to respond in fury, trying to leave him desperate to prove that idea wrong. 

It wasn’t going to work.

“Yinsen. There’s no way for us to get out of here alive. Be real.” Tony’s deadpan was no longer humorous, just depressed. 

“Build their weaponry. But not for them. Build something for yourself, something that will tear through those men. Escape. And then come back to Ter Pelaca, and stabilize their country. Put one of the moderates in place, form a real country. Build yourself a legacy of something other than ash and dust.” Yinsen’s voice was quiet yet powerful, an attempt to push Tony towards his plan.

Designs were already flickering behind Tony’s eyes, pieces slotting themselves together inside his head. If anyone deserved to get out, it was Yinsen, not Tony. So he would build a weapon, yes. And wield it with his bloodstained hands. But it would be Yinsen who came back, who fixed everything. In the coming future, Stephen would hear of Tony as a hero, the martyr, someone who stood up in the face of pain. What he wouldn’t hear was that it was nothing new.

\------------------

Over the following days, designs came together. It started on paper, neat charcoal lines delineating each and every piece. Slowly but surely, the parts were formed, molten metal hammered into precise, interlocking pieces. Everything was beginning to take shape. Tony would be the dying star gone supernova.

\------------------

Yinsen slowly strapped Tony into the flamethrowers. The gauntlets interlocked across his skin, a layer of leather there as a furtitive attempt to avoid burns. He didn’t particularly care if his flesh wound up charred, though. It wasn’t like he was going to be alive much longer.

Around the corner, the scuffs of shoes were audible. Tony flinched, mouthing at Yinsen to hurry, continuing to strain his ears towards the noise. His muscles slowly coiled, ready to throw himself forward, to get Yinsen out at all costs. He felt the last piece click into place, Yinsen’s steady hands abandoning the gauntlets at last. He shot a look at Tony, one with an indiscernible meaning, before running towards the door. Tony followed, and they crouched by the door as the footsteps drew ever closer.

Yinsen met Tony’s gaze, a measured look in his eyes, “I’m going to draw as many of them off as possible. You need to get out.” 

Tony’s mind blanked from horror. This was never the plan. Yinsen had to get out, had to see the next day. Tony was the one that had to die. Yinsen had ideas, hopes, plans for his country, for the world. He couldn’t have that taken away, couldn’t cut a promising life short.

The door burst open, and a parcel of men filed into the room, glancing around, not seeing Yinsen and Tony behind the door. Yinsen lunged out, yanking a gun from the hand of one of them.

He let off a gunshot, the bullet flying through the chin of one of the men. Tony raised his hands and flipped the switches on. Even though he turned them off just a short moment later, the nozzles sent a stream of the green flames flying forward, catching and spreading on clothes, hair, and exploding in contact with water. After the blast, Tony looked at the gauntlets. He let out a huffed sigh; the phosphate compound had worked rather well. Satisfied that these men were no longer threats, he turned towards Yinsen.

Yinsen.

Yinsen.

Where was Yinsen?

Tony strode towards the hallway as fast as he could, his lungs straining painfully against his stitches. 

Ahead of him he saw flashes.

Gunpowder.

Repeated bangs echoed in his skull.

Shots being fired.

An underlying soundtrack to that all, wet splatters.

Blood, sputtering out of bodies, onto the once dry ground.

Tony’s breathe shook within his chest, lungs heaving, his mind full of static, a feedback loop.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Yinsen was supposed to be safe. I was the one who would die. Tony’s mind raced, his neurons firing off faster than he could comprehend.

He finally reached the source of the sounds, found Yinsen with a bullet through one lung, blood pooling beneath him, half-alive men scattered around him.

“Stark… Don’t waste your life,” Yinsen choked the words out around a mouthful of blood, falling into a series of hacking coughs. Blood dripped down his chin.

“...Yinsen?” Tony’s quavering voice reached out in desperation; he wanted nothing more than to believe that everything would revert, go back to plan. Wanted to believe that Yinsen wasn’t here, letting out his last breath on a cave floor. But no, it was all too real, and Yinsen was gone. 

Gone.

Tony felt the anger well up within his core, and stormed towards the upper pathways of the cave. As he stepped out the door, he felt a twinge of guilt before he set the world alight. He wasn’t the hero that anyone needed, wasn’t Yinsen. But he’d burn his way out of here, and then he’d come back; he’d help these people.

\---------------

Flesh burned, and charred, and smoked. Fire spread like the plague. Men died, their remains reduced to bones, ashes, and smoldering skin. Tony’s own hands burned, but he barely noticed the physical pain amidst his emotional storm.

These people were fighting for their freedom. The wrong way, and backing the wrong leader, but they were trying to free their country. And Tony was igniting all of them, for something as trivial as his own sake. The metaphorical blood on his hands turned literal, and his stomach churned.

The last men standing were running, obviously not of a mind to stop Tony’s escape. He stood there, resigned, shoulders and head hanging down. He wouldn’t exactly chase down the survivors; they thought they were doing the right thing. And he had done enough. 

Stumbling through the desert, Tony’s eyes scanned the sand, searching for water, shelter, anything. His mind was hazy; his scalded feet were running on autopilot, legs carrying him in a haphazard path across the gritty earth. As the hours ticked by, the sun spun around, an astronomical hour hand, marking the passage of time. Tony’s limbs slowly grew tired, falling into exhaustion as easily as one might crumple onto a down mattress. 

A mattress… Tony would give anything to be at home in his bed at that moment, to wake up and find this all a dream.

Eventually his legs gave out, and he fell to his knees, still crawling forward desperately, searching for shelter, for home. And then his arms failed, leaving him curled up in fetal position, surrounded in sand, the grains invading his clothes, rubbing his flesh raw. His eyes fluttered closed, and he fell into blissful, dreamless unconsciousness.

\----------------------

He awoke in a carriage. Blinking warily at the world around him, Tony attempted to catalog his surroundings. Had he been kidnapped again? Given the lack of bindings, Tony would (for the time being) assume no. Rescued, then? By whom? He sat up, gingerly moving tender muscles. Beside him rested a glass of water. Sniffing it suspiciously, Tony didn’t notice anything obviously awry. And besides, if it were poisoned, he would only be meeting his just end.

He took small sips, attempting to avoid vomiting. Unless that was what the potential poison did, in which case he’d vomit his guts out and die, finally being at rest. The cool pressure on his throat felt amazing, soothing the raw flesh. His hands felt the benefits as well, the crisped flesh chilled by the condensation. 

He almost laughed, looking at the ruins that once were his hands. Watch Obadiah try to make him build when he was crippled, his hands useless shells of what they once were. The noise seemed to catch the attention of whomever was on the exterior of the carriage, and Tony heard them shifting about, clambering towards him. He froze as the door creaked open, but then felt himself relax at seeing the familiar face.

“Rhodey!” his mouth split into a wide grin, and he pushed himself upright. The motion caused him to wince; he felt the aching burns on his hands and the tightness in his chest, but he ignored it in favour of greeting his best friend. “It’s been a while,” Tony tried to infuse the remark with his trademark flippancy, but instead his voice cracked, eyes watering. He averted his gaze, instead fiddling with the seat cushion. When Rhodey’s arms enveloped him gently, Tony flinched but eventually collapsed into the hug.

“Try not to get kidnapped again, ‘kay, Tones?” Rhodey’s answering remark was given in a warm voice that set Tony at ease. He let out a watery laugh, sniffling and promptly rubbing his nose on Rhodey’s shirt. 

“Tony! That’s nasty!” Rhodey’s exclamation was loud and dramatic, but he didn’t even attempt to move away. Tony sat there in his arms, dozing off as he was finally headed home.

\-------------------

“They’re dying, and it’s my fault,” Tony whispered into nothingness, standing alone in his lab, head in his hands, elbows on the table. “They’re dying, and I’m the one killing them.” He reached over to the bottle that sat beside his head, and threw back another swallow. He stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by designs. Improved flamethrowers, ones that wouldn’t burn him, versions that would burn anything that dared cross their path. Body armor, lighter than traditional armor, more effective than chainmail, stronger than leather. A way to keep the soldiers that acted for him, for his country, safer.

\--------------------

Later, he took to wearing the body armor all of the time. It made him feel safe, protecting him from both bullets and his own brain. The snug fit made him feel cocooned, stopped the constant sensation of floating. He would go to sleep, finally let his eyes close, then wake up thrashing, seeing bullets, bodies, flames, everything wrong with the world. Everything he had done.

\---------------------

Tony woke with a start, screaming, searching his surroundings with an animalistic fear in his eyes. His eyes caught on Obadiah in the corner, automatically skipping over him, his brain cataloging Obie as ‘unthreatening.’ It took him a moment to realize that was horribly wrong, that Obadiah wasn’t supposed to be there, what was happening, why was he there? 

“You were never supposed to come back, Tony,” Obadiah said, his voice gravelly, cold, threatening.

“What?” Tony whimpered, cowering beneath the blankets, reaching subtly for the gauntlets he had stowed within the head of his bed. He had known that Obadiah didn’t give a shit about him, didn’t want him there, but this didn’t make sense. 

It couldn’t be true.

“The Ten Rings needed weaponry. All it took for them to take you off my hands was the suggestion and a few coins. And they knew the deal, knew that you were to be disposed of soon after.” Obadiah sighed, picking at his nails, “But it’s hard to find good hired help these days, apparently. Because they couldn’t even keep you, let alone remove the life from your body.” Tony flinched at the callous statements, all the while trying to pull his gauntlets on with shaking hands.

“But now that you’ve been kidnapped, people know that you’ve got enemies. So they won’t even question when your corpse is found in your rooms, riddled with bullets.” Obie reached to his side, picked up the gun that had been laying there nonchalantly. He raised the barrel, and Tony froze in terror, seeing the inner workings from the wrong side. But before Obadiah could pull the trigger, he kicked the blanket up into Obie’s face, and slammed the gauntlets up, toggling the switches with his thumbs.

He left the flames on for barely a moment, not long enough to really do anything. The flames licked at Obie’s long, sweeping cloak, but barely even caught. As Obadiah tore off the cloak, attempting to stomp the flames out, Tony sprinted towards his windowsill, leaping through onto the rooftop below, rolling out of the drop. A shot cracked against the window frame, the bullet ricocheting off one of the towers. Tony continued to sprint across the roof, the scars across his chest pulling painfully with his breath. Looking ahead, his eyes scanned frantically across the rooftops, searching for the stables. Once he found them, he swerved to the left, keeping the shingled roof locked in his sights.

When he reached the end of the stretch he was running along, he climbed down, landing heavily on the ground, bare feet wincing at the gravel digging in. The pain barely registered though, as he was immediately sprinting again, the stable doors now within view. He tore open the door, rushing towards his horse. He threw himself onto You, ignoring the lack saddle, urging him forward, storming through the courtyard and out of the castle. Soon enough he found himself at the city gates.

“It’s King Stark, let me through,” he called in a breathless voice, glancing up at the guards while continuing to ride towards the gates.

“No, I don’t think we’re going to do that,” a guard leered from above. His partner stood beside him, snickering.

Tony shook in fear; he needed to get away, “Fine, then. This comes out of your salaries,” he yelled, raising his gauntlets, letting the green fire dissolved the bolts holding the gates in place. They went crashing down, the metal clanging against the stone, waking the city, if any of Lalenta had slept still. The guards above fell silent, pulling out their weapons, preparing to shoot. Tony urged You forward, racing across the fallen gates, headed towards the Nazpenan border.

He told himself that it was a random choice, that he definitely didn’t want Stephen to save him, to protect him, to keep him from adding more blood to that which was already dripping off of his hands. As You raced onward, Tony sat, guiding the horse on autopilot, as his mind spun with the developments of the evening.

And no matter where it went, he always somehow wound back up thinking about how he hurt someone. And it wasn’t even on Obie’s orders this time. And he wasn’t escaping kidnappers. He hurt another person, just to avoid his own death. If he had just died, Obie couldn’t have used him anymore, there would’ve been no more weapons. Everything would’ve been better if he had just died in his goddamn rooms, choking on his blood.

Blood. He felt like blood dripped from his fingers, fell off his boots, trickling down from his hair. His entire world was blood, blood that he had drawn, and he was drowning in it. He struggled for breath, panic flowing through his veins with his blood. He didn’t deserve to keep his blood, not when so many had spilt theirs at his hands. He stifled a sob, still tearing through the night, nearing a clearing.

He pulled You to a stop, tying him to a tree before sitting down nearby. Nothing was okay. He deserved to die, but Obadiah didn’t deserve to kill him. And Obadiah was coming, but he couldn’t do anything about that, and he shouldn’t hurt anyone, even Obadiah. Not when his technology was at work that moment ripping innocent soldiers’ lives from their bodies. The blood choking him was sufficient as is, he didn’t need to coat himself in literal blood to match the metaphorical. 

Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. Tony sighed at the inevitability of the coming conflict, not even bothering to get to his feet. He instead chose to focus on You’s muzzle, running his hand along the horse’s soft face.

“I’m sorry, buddy. I shouldn’t’ve dragged you into this,” he murmured, a quiet apology to another innocent who would be caught in his crossfire. And with that, he saw Obadiah pounding up, riding a massive dark grey stallion.

“Tony? You shouldn’t have done that,” Obadiah’s voice was quietly menacing, cutting through the other night time noises, sending the blood pounding in Tony’s ears. He fired off the gun, the explosive bullet landing in the tree above You, the miniature fireball singing his fur, shrapnel embedding deep within his back. He wavered, and collapsed, blood trickling out of his nose. Tony stared at his beloved horse’s body, horrified, barely able to hold back a sob. Everything that got near him was hurt and died, in the end.

“Collateral damage, Tony.” Obadiah yelled from his position atop the horse, smirking down at him. He reloaded the gun, painstakingly slowly. Tony made a note that the reload time was far too long, that it needed to be shortened. Then he shook himself, hating that weapons had become so ingrained in his life that they were all he thought about. 

Obadiah fired.

The bullet shot through the air.

Tony watched it embed itself in the tree above. Against his conscious thoughts, instinctive self-preservation left him rolling away. The heat from the explosive seared his eyes, and he stood up shakily. Obadiah was carefully reloading the gun, and Tony rolled his eyes. Far off in the distance, more hoofbeats sounded, the rhythm evoking imagery of drums.

As the hoofs drew nearer, Tony absentmindedly wondered if some member of the working class were about to stumble upon them. But it was the dead of night, and so he found that rather unlikely. Who else would be coming? A lackey of Obie’s? The weird guards he pissed off at the city gates? The hoofbeats soon passed him by however, galloping off in another direction. Obie raised his gun, and prepared to fire, clearly set on not missing this time.

And sparks appeared between them. 

A circle opened in the air, and Stephen stepped out, his cloak swirling around his feet. 

Smirking, Obadiah commented, “Both of you gone in one go? All the better.” He fired, and Tony watched as if in slow motion as Stephen raised his hands, as he if could punch away the bullet. But then glowing disks appeared on his fists, orange geometric constructions that shone bright through the darkness of the night. The shot bounced off, into the woods, and in a quick motion, Stephen pulled a dagger off of his waist, throwing it through Obie’s stomach with deadly accuracy. It toppled him from his horse, a nightmare beast that bolted off into the night as soon as he was rid of his burden.

“Tony, are you okay?” Stephen reached out to touch Tony’s cheek, gently examining the scrape that Tony had acquired.

“Stephanie, I’ve never been better,” his voice cracked midway through the phrase, significantly lowering his credibility. He pushed back tears, instead choosing to throw himself at Stephen, attaching himself like a koala. Stifling his emotions, trying to return to their former dynamic, he said “How’d you know to come here, now? Not that I’m not hopelessly grateful,” To accompany this dramatic statement, he fluttered his eyelashes dramatically before pretending to faint into Stephen’s broad shoulders.

“The Ancient One had a precognition, and told me I needed to be here,” Stephen explained, housting Tony upright after the mock unconsciousness, “Are you really okay?”

“I’m good enough, thanks to you,” 

“You would’ve been fine without me, I’m sure. A strong-willed idiot like yourself? Utterly impossible to kill,” Stephen said, and Tony couldn’t help it, he reached up to peck his lips on Stephen’s. 

He’d barely known the man two months, and he was already hopelessly head over heels.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed, I might make more fics in this series if enough people give a shit?  
> Send me concrit!


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